Monday, November 9, 2015

Steve Klepetar - Dead Season / Alone and Unafraid

Dead Season

something
broken on the hay-
strewn floor

tiny skull, fragment
of rock
or bone, a little

gearbox caught
in dusty
sunlight streaming

through the barn
objects scattered
by entropy

as the world’s great
hammer
thuds in the smithy

of time, and 
ears grow
used to the clang

of steel
on cooling steel
and syllables

blur  into words
molecules slow
and congeal into this cold

this dead
season stilled
of panic, frozen into calm





Alone and Unafraid

She’s out again in the bright cold, brushing
a layer of light snow from the drive, hands

numbing even in her alpaca gloves. Her
breath steams, hair crinkles with electric

sparks. Winter marks her skin with its dry touch.
Inside she mends the fire, stirring ashes

into glowing sparks. The days are longer now
but all this vapid sun can do is make snow

sparkle on the boughs of oaks and burn her eyes.
His fire roars within his chest, she feels the radiance

through his study walls. Surely his fingers touch
another world, with rocks and colors he can paint

in bitter air. Such uneasy trances, this transport
of eyes. His mouth mumbles over silent words.

Her own visions show fingers laid end to end,
their black nails smooth as agate or magnetite.

She grips his severed head by the coal black hair,
holds it as he whispers prophecies to the icy stars.

She sleeps in her volcanic bed, alone and unafraid
as shifting roof beams crack in thunderous blasts.









Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).

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